


the witching hour

by anoddconstellationofthoughts



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (just one and it's very brief), Camping, Canon-Typical Violence, Cuddling & Snuggling, Eldritch Horror Geralt of Rivia, Gore, Implied/Referenced Sex, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, Metaphysics, it's all fairly mild, this is basically kind of a thriller fic, uwu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2020-06-15
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:27:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24738400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoddconstellationofthoughts/pseuds/anoddconstellationofthoughts
Summary: Let’s go camping!Jaskier had said.It’ll be fun!he’d said. Geralt stifles a snort. It has been fun, right up until now.Now, there is something trailing a slick talon down the seams of their reality, tracing, teasing, yearning to get out.Geralt had been one of those creatures. It understands the feeling. It knows the taste of freedom, of fresh air on a tongue, in a nose that before has only known filth. Recognizes the texture of bone and sinew giving way under its teeth. Remembers the pleasure that stabs through the endless pain and hunger they’ve always felt.It is not that creature anymore, not really. Its claws are not fully sheathed, nor its teeth any less sharp. But it is not the same.The time is 3:37 a.m. and the pressure of the talon is back.geralt and jaskier go camping. they are not alone.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 15
Kudos: 71





	the witching hour

3:00 a.m. is the witching hour.

Jaskier doesn’t seem like the type to care. If he’s up at 3:00 a.m., he’s either eating or relaxing or singing or fucking. None of those things call for a visit from the undead or unholy. He’s dumb, sure, Geralt will acknowledge that, but he’s not stupid enough to mess around with things like that.

Except he is.

Geralt isn’t scared of the witching hour, either. It has no need to be.

The creatures that lurk in the dark should be scared of Geralt.

But, of course, Jaskier doesn’t know that. And he shouldn’t: that part of Geralt’s life is none of the other man’s concern. Just because you are in a relationship with someone doesn’t mean they have to know what you look like with pitch-black eyes and blood dripping from your teeth. Some things are just meant to stay apart. Geralt prefers it that way.

It knows, though, that things like that never work out. It knows it can’t hide from Jaskier forever. That’s alright.

It’s just stubborn enough to try.

It is 3:33 a.m. There’s a lumpy mat below them and a lightly snoring man pressed to its chest. The soft duet of their heartbeats rings in its ears.

Geralt can’t sleep. It knows they’re not alone.

_ Let’s go camping! _ Jaskier had said.  _ It’ll be fun!  _ he’d said. Geralt stifles a snort. It has been fun, right up until now. 

Now, there is something trailing a slick talon down the seams of their reality, tracing, teasing, yearning to get out.

Geralt had been one of those creatures. It understands the feeling. It knows the taste of freedom, of fresh air on a tongue, in a nose that before has only known filth. Recognizes the texture of bone and sinew giving way under its teeth. Remembers the pleasure that stabs through the endless pain and hunger they’ve always felt.

It is not that creature anymore, not really. Its claws are not fully sheathed, nor its teeth any less sharp. But it is not the same.

The time is 3:37 a.m. and the pressure of the talon is back. 

It’s harder this time, more insistent. Testing how strong the boundary between worlds is. Gauging how much strength it would take to snap a thread and tear open the seams, unleashing a flood of terror and violence on this world. 

It would not be the first time something broke through. After all, Geralt is here, is it not?

The talon pauses, and a growl gathers in Geralt’s throat.

The woods are active around them, cicadas and crickets and owls roaring in Geralt’s sensitive ears. It had been quiet on the other side. The vacuum of rotting space between entities and creatures swallowed up what little sound there would have been. It had taken Geralt two weeks of freedom to figure out it could talk. Even longer before it learned to tune out the cacophony that this world could never dim. 

It’d found Jaskier not long after that. Hadn’t killed him, though something within it had wanted to. It’d found the sleeping body and the soft rise and fall of his chest, and been unable to bare its fangs. 

It had slipped out of the window from where it’d come. Found another victim that night. One who deserved it.

Geralt finds existence in this world very different from the old one. For example, it is much more bearable in this world to act on some semblance of morals. Geralt only feasts on those who deserve it. It is rarely sure of their crime, but that doesn’t matter. The oily slide of a rotten soul is familiar to Geralt. It can smell it, feel it calling to its own, beckoning to that of the same kind. Kindred spirits, one could say.

If “spirit” is even the right word.

It is 3:41 a.m. and Jaskier shifts slightly on Geralt’s chest. He presses a (cold, what is he, a dog?) nose to the pulse beating in Geralt’s neck, light, faint, slower than any human’s heartbeat should be.

Geralt is not human. But perhaps you have guessed that already.

There’s no word for what Geralt is. Demon implies a tie to or existence of a god, which, as far as Geralt is concerned, does not exist. It is not a ghost, as it was nothing before it became this. Vampires and werewolves and zombies are all similarly derived from humans and foolish stories. Ghouls feed off of dead bodies. Geralt prefers its meals fresh.

_ Eldritch horror  _ is the closest expression to what Geralt is. That, in itself, means nothing. The phrase is vague and sinister. It likes it that way.

Even then, it’s not wholly accurate. Geralt doesn’t spend its time lurking in the dark. It appears when it is hungry, and if its victim is lucky, they get to keep their liver.

They’re not often lucky. But such is life. 

Such is death.

It is 3:42 a.m. and the tip of the talon presses so hard the boundary between worlds thins.

Jaskier twitches in his sleep and in an instant the talon recedes. 

Hm. Odd.

Geralt looks down at the sleeping man in its arms, at least, as much as it can, given their current position. The walls of their tent and the trees above prevent much moonlight from reaching Geralt’s eyes, but it doesn’t need it. Seeing in darkness is what its yellow, slitted pupils had been made for. 

Jaskier has both arms tucked between his chest and Geralt’s, their legs tangled together, and his fingers caught in the thin material of Geralt’s sleep shirt. His head is too close to see, but Geralt knows his dark curls are strewn across his forehead, tousled and messy, the perfect length to just barely avoid obscuring his vision. His eyes are closed, but Geralt knows their soft shading of cornflower blue. It’s the same blue it sees against its eyelids when it deigns to shut its eyes.

They’re an odd pair, the two of them. One, a young man with a sharp tongue and slender fingers and the voice of a rogue angel, the other an ageless horror with white hair and yellow eyes and a heart that slips and stutters and forgets how to beat. It would be poetic if Geralt had been on this earth long enough to truly understand what poetry was.

Jaskier had tried to explain it once. 

_ It’s like a cadence, a rhythm, of words or sounds or syllables,  _ he’d said.  _ A particular pattern that draws a reaction from your heart or your mind or your toes. Just a little something that makes you pause, and stop, and think. _

He’d gathered a fistful of white hair in slim fingers and tugged sharply, and Geralt, without meaning to or realizing, had moaned.

_ Yes, _ Jaskier had said, lips slipping up into a cruel smile. His eyes had glinted, intoxicated by the power of the “man” kneeling before him.  _ Just like that. _

That was a good memory. Jaskier has given Geralt many of those.

3:45 a.m.

Geralt can no longer sense the talon on the other side, but it does not doubt its presence. It may not understand poetry, but it knows this pattern: tease and stop and push and stop and trace and wait until the victim has calmed and forgotten about the end that waits so patiently to meet them. Then, gather strength into aching limbs, feel the black pool into its eyes and launch forward, jaw open and claws outstretched, perfectly aimed for the unassuming throat that’s just begging to be,  _ praying _ to be-

Jaskier takes a particularly deep breath and Geralt jerks out of the fantasy.

Save for the night they met, it has never thought of the young man’s neck like that. Something about Jaskier makes Geralt want to cower and grovel and press gentle kisses to whatever skin is offered. Something about Jaskier makes it want to bay and expose its own neck in surrender.

This is not a familiar feeling for Geralt, but it’s not one it hates. Being at the mercy of another and not once worrying for its own life and pride is an experience Jaskier has taught Geralt to savor. It'd been a struggle, of course, but Jaskier seemed to enjoy the fight.

And now, he enjoys the submission, so it’s a victory on both sides, really.

It’s 3:48 a.m. and Jaskier’s fingers tighten in Geralt’s shirt, knuckles brushing over the exposed skin by its collarbones. It doesn’t make Geralt shiver, but had it been human, it would have.

That was the funny thing about Geralt’s body. It did not really belong to the creature inside. It had stolen it from a man with the same name. 

_ Geralt, please, _ the woman had begged,  _ please, I said stop- _

The creature that now lived in Geralt’s body had eaten well that night. 

It hadn’t meant to claim the body as its own. Being wholly corporeal had been an alien concept to it, but when it’d felt the corpse calling to him, it hadn’t resisted. The hair had grown long and faded from black to white, green eyes had soured to yellow, and pupils had thinned out into slits. The organs, though largely unneeded, had regrown and the skin melted back together, leaving scars both new and old. 

It had immediately liked having a body, even if learning how to walk with a grown man’s limbs had been a tedious process. Taking the dead man’s name had been a slip of the tongue, but it had felt right.

A monster still occupies this body, Geralt reasons, just in a different flavor.

Poetic, Jaskier might say.

3:50 a.m. Geralt tightens its arms around the man beside it.

After leaving him that first night, Geralt hadn’t expected to ever meet him again. It had no concept for how big or small the world is. Usually, a potential victim would become a confirmed victim, a notch on the bedpost Geralt doesn't have, another document in the case file no one will ever make. But Jaskier had walked up to it in the park eight days later, sat beside it on the bench and offered a torn chunk of bread retrieved from his pants to feed the birds. Smiled warmly, either not noticing the slitted pupils or ignoring them altogether, and asked his name.

_ Geralt, _ the creature had managed to rasp. Talking had still been new.

But that hadn’t mattered to Jaskier. Still doesn't. So long as Geralt agrees to stay by his side, he is more than happy to fill the silence.

Geralt hadn’t realized how much it had hated the quiet from the other side. That is just another bullet point on the long list of things Jaskier has taught it. 

That was almost eight months ago. Beyond Geralt’s hunts, they haven’t spent much time apart since. 

Geralt sometimes wonders if the man knows. He has to realize that the creature he calls his “boyfriend” is neither a “boy” nor a “friend.” It just is.

The faint warmth of Jaskier’s body against Geralt’s swells and Geralt thinks that it enjoys pretending to be both of those things for the man in its arms. Perhaps, if given the time, it could even learn how to be them for real.

That could be nice, it thinks. Becoming something else for Jaskier could be nice.

Then the talon against the fabric of reality is back, forceful and angry and  _ frantic _ and, fuck, it’s 3:57 a.m. The pattern worked.

Geralt really does growl this time, but there’s nothing it can do. It can only wait until the thing on the other side breaks through, and then it can fight, then it can protect what it wants so desperately to call its own.

Arms tighten further around Jaskier, and it’s a painful effort to keep reeking, dripping claws from peeking through the tips of Geralt’s fingers.

It had never wanted Jaskier to experience any of this. That had always been the plan: they could laugh and eat and kiss and fuck, but Jaskier could never see, never witness this side of Geralt. Geralt knew little of this world, but it knew the truth of its being would not be warmly received by a human. It agreed that it shouldn’t be.

What Geralt is is wrong, and rotten, and evil. It doesn't know how to find shame in that. But it doesn’t wish to bestow that upon anyone who does not deserve it.

Jaskier does not deserve it.

3:58 a.m.

The talon pushes intently, filing fear into a razor sharp point, needling, shoving, willing the tip to break through the fabric of reality. Geralt can feel the first thread wearing thin, preparing to snap. Were it human, anxiety and adrenaline would be thrumming through its veins. As it is, something else is moving through it, filling its eyes with black.

Teeth give way to fangs. The claws began to slip through.

The first thread breaks with a  _ snap _ that reverberates through Geralt’s entire being and then some.

It tenses, slowly shifting its weight in preparation to throw Jaskier behind it and fling claw and snarl and tooth at whatever will break through, whatever dares to try and take what Geralt has so foolishly claimed as its  _ own. _

Another thread gives way, then another, then another.

The tip of the claw breaches the boundary as Geralt watches, refusing to label what it feels as fear.

The faintest wisp of darkness, of _otherness,_ trickles through. It burns the hairs of Geralt’s nose.

Jaskier groans and the claw stops.

Geralt stops.

Jaskier says, “What time is it?”

“3:59 a.m.” Geralt’s voice does not tremble. It is not allowed to.

“Mm. Witching hour is almost over, huh?” the man says, eyes still closed where he is cradled in Geralt’s arms.

The talon twitches, still embedded in the fabric of the universe. The creature says nothing.

“You’re so tense,” Jaskier murmurs, snuggling closer. His breath brushes softly over the hollow at the base of Geralt’s throat. “Are you scared?”

_ No. _

Two more threads snap. Three.

Geralt finds it cannot move.

The smile that curves on the man’s lips ghosts over rough skin. “That’s alright, dear. I’ll protect you.” 

_ I'll protect you. _

_ Protect you. _

_ What? _

The talon moves toward them, unyielding, instant, determined, shredding at the now-delicate film between worlds. Geralt prepares itself to pounce.

But then, a scream _ -no not scream, a vibration, a silent howl- _ of agony erupts from the other side. 

Threads weave themselves back together, giving the talon no choice but to retreat. 

The gravity around Jaskier has strengthened. Geralt can’t shift, can’t move, can’t even push itself off the ground or pull Jaskier impossibly closer. Ozone stings Geralt’s pale nose and black eyes, gripping its lungs and ripping the air from them, and Geralt thinks that, despite its tightly closed lips, perhaps the anguished cry that echoes against the walls of the tent is its own. 

The forest is eerily silent around them.

Jaskier’s eyes are closed, and his body remains peacefully pliant, blissfully unaffected by the gravity or the ozone or the breach of worlds above him.

As the talon shrinks back to the world from which it came, Geralt’s claws follow suit. Yellow eyes drain of black, teeth remember their blunt edges, and the air flows back into Geralt’s lungs.

It’s 4:00 a.m. No longer the witching hour. 

The fabric of reality has been restored to its full strength, the threads twisted and whole and intact. The presence on the other side is truly gone.

Fear and wariness and  _ something else _ muddle in Geralt’s mind. Jaskier sleeps deeply beside it, head tucked into the crook of its neck, legs tangled, and fingers wrapped around Geralt’s shirt.

He breathes, slowly, calmly, setting a rhythm for Geralt’s own body to follow, like a loyal puppy whose only reality is this.

The creature that calls itself Geralt allows itself to close its eyes and relax its body. It doesn’t know what just happened. It doesn’t know how to react. Crickets sing joyously outside of their tent.

_ I’ll protect you. _

Sleep and serenity call it. The time is 4:01 a.m. and soon the sun will rise.

Geralt’s final thought before it drifts off to sleep is this:

Perhaps the thing sleeping beside it isn’t a man after all. 

**Author's Note:**

> she said inhuman jaskier RIGHTS  
> anyway  
> i've never written anything like this before. i love psychological thrillers n horror n stuff like that, but i've never attempted to write it. as such, i had no idea what to tag. so, let me know if i should tweak anything in the tags to more accurately fit the fic.   
> come screech at me on [tumblr](https://anoddconstellationofthoughts.tumblr.com) or in the comments. i love to hear your thoughts.  
> ♡


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